


Silly Persons

by CractasticDispatches



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing, Dragneto, M/M, Some Fluff, it starts with whipped cream for crying out loud, no really crack, what are we even doing?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CractasticDispatches/pseuds/CractasticDispatches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of loosely related snippets of McFassy moments. It may or may not turn into an actual fic. We're not sure yet. If it does become something more than just a bunch of fairly random bits of crack/fluff, the rating may have to change.</p><p>Edit: rating now changed for new chap/drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Whipped Cream makes an appearance, and the Theory of Shoes is discussed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, we are Kit and Kat. This happened -- or started happening -- a while ago. We're not really sure how. (Kit: I blame Kat. Only her brain could possibly be this weird. Kat: Shut up, you know you love it.) You can find the original posts on Tumblr if you care to bother. (Don't. It's much easier to just read it here.) Basically we are crazy. And we have decided to embrace this fact.  
> Also, we know next to nothing about film-making, how things work on-set, etc. What little we do know has been taken, and probably misconstrued, from Gag Reels. Most of what you will find here is just us making stuff up. We apologize or any truly heinous inaccuracies.  
> *Disclaimer/Fic-notes: any and all RPF we will do in this fandom will presuppose an unmarried James unless otherwise specified.

### In Which Whipped Cream Makes and Appearance, and the Theory of Shoes is Discussed

 

If asked later, Michael would never quite have been able to explain just how they had wound up in a whipped cream fight. It was utterly ridiculous, juvenile, even, yet as much as Michael might have wished that he could say it was an unusual occurrence he could not because truthfully he had been doing rather a lot of more or less juvenile things ever since he had started here at the X-Men set. Ever since he’d met James, his impulsive, floppy-haired Scottish co-star.

It had taken Michael about all of five minutes to decide that James McAvoy was easily the silliest person he’d ever had the fortune — good or ill — to meet. He’d liked him immediately. It was fantastic, really, the chemistry that had sprung up so easily between them; Michael had, of course, had that experience which all actors face eventually of having to pretend on screen to get on famously with someone who, in reality, you couldn’t stand. It had to be done, of course, and if you couldn’t do it then you weren’t really all that much of an actor after all, but even so it was not particularly fun.

Working with James was wonderfully refreshing. Even if (or perhaps because) they ended up having to do multiple takes of everything because between the two of them they hardly ever stopped laughing. It was a bit like finding the brother he’d never actually had.

Which, he supposed, almost explained how he’d ended up sitting here on the sidelines for lunch with whipped cream in his hair and his sides aching with laughter. James had started it, of course, and it was a testament to how commonplace such antics were becoming that none of their colleagues had commented, or even looked all that surprised and Michael supposed that any reputation he might have had for being serious was now well and truly shattered. It was worth it though, he decided as he tried not to laugh at the adorably ridiculous expressions James was making as he tried in vain to reach a spot of whipped cream on his nose with his tongue.

“Give it up, you silly fool,” Michael advised him. “You’re going to strain something. Just use your fingers.”

“But it’s — right — there!” James insisted stubbornly, going cross-eyed as he struggled; the little puff of white clinging just beyond his tongue’s reach.

Michael shook his head.

“If ever there was a time for candid camera,” he laughed. Then he reached over. “Honestly, here.”

He swiped his index finger along James’s nose, removing the blob of now-slightly-melty whipped cream. James’s blue eyes followed it. Then, with no apparent thought beyond his determination to get his tongue to the whipped cream, he leaned forward and closed his mouth around Michael’s finger.

Michael blinked, surprised as much by the fact that James had actually just done it as by his own reaction. He had had others — women — do the same thing to him before, and always with far more obvious motives and implications, and he’d never found the action to be all that erotic. Now, however, he found himself intensely aware of the warm wet of James’s mouth and the pull of James’s tongue against his skin as James swallowed and of a sudden tight, slightly tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

It was unusual and intriguing and entirely not the sort of thoughts he ought to entertain about his co-star.

James pulled back, his eyes sparking with mischief.

“Mine,” he said firmly. “Get your own.”

Pulling himself together, Michael rolled his eyes at his friend.

“Gross,” he complained, grinning. “You can have your spit back.” And he wiped his finger off on James’s shirtsleeve. James leaned away half-heartedly.

“What? Afraid of my cooties?” he teased.

“Oh, it’s bound to be deadly,” Michael agreed solemn-faced.

“Naturally,” said James, then he added, “You’ve got a bit just here—” he indicated his temple. “If you don’t want it I’ll—”

“Hmm? Oh, I got it, thanks,” said Michael quickly, waving James’s hands away and swiping at his own temple with a napkin. He came away with a decent-sized globule of his own.

“Fassbender! I need— Oh stars, what have you two been up to this time?”

Michael blushed slightly and James grinned as they turned to face Cody Hallender, Michael’s makeup artist’s trainee and assistant. She was a short girl of about twenty with lively hazel eyes and several shocks of bright blue streaking through her short-cut blonde hair. Young as she was, Michael had never seen anything phase her and suspected that her whirlwind personality was what had allowed her to reach and maintain her current job.

“Well,” she said, her eyes sweeping over Michael’s slightly disheveled and whipped cream-spattered self, “I guess now I know why Matt said I might want to get you a bit early.”

“James started it,” Michael said, putting up his hands. “It’s not my fault—”

“What?” cried James in mock outrage. “I did not. Cody, you know I’d never—”

Cody snorted in amusement. “No, never.”

If sarcasm were tangible, Michael and James would have been drowning in it.

“Well, come on, Fassbender,” she said briskly, though the corners of her mouth were still twitching, “Gotta get you cleaned up and made-up all special-like for you upcoming foray into feminism.”

Michael laughed and stood up; he still couldn’t quite believe that cross-dressing had made it into the script, but he was actually looking forward to the scene. It had been hilarious to read. If he and James could just manage to keep their faces straight long enough it would probably make for a great moment of humor in the film.

“Can I help?” asked James eagerly.

“No,” said Cody and Michael together. James had tried to do his own make-up once, with rather disastrous results.

“Oh, come on,” he wheedled. “I mean, this is supposed to be what my character’s imagining, right? So shouldn’t we be sure it looks like something I’d imagine?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Michael. “We want them to keep this scene, remember?”

“Meaning what? Anything I’d imagine would have to be censored?” James demanded, eyebrows raised.

Michael just grinned at him as he followed Cody.

“Naturally.”

 

“Ow! Bloody hell! I swear, I’m gonna kill myself in these.”

The scene itself had gone quite well, thought it had taken rather a lot of takes to get it right. As Michael had suspected, the hardest part had been keeping a straight face — or at least the hardest part as an actor. Just as a simple human being, however, the shoes definitely took the cake.

Michael tottered haphazardly over to his chair where Cody was waiting for him and collapsed gratefully into it.

“How on earth do women walk in these things?” he demanded, reaching down to pull the shiny black heels from his feet.

“With determination and fortitude and evidently more balance than you’ve got,” said Cody sniggering. “Honestly, and you always seemed so graceful before now.”

“Oh, come on,” said James, who had followed Michael over. “It can’t be that hard. Women do it all the time after all.”

He slid his feet into the shoes — though they couldn’t possibly have fit him as Michael’s feet were definitely bigger — and took a few wobbling steps.

“See? Nothing to it—” He broke off suddenly with a yelp as he missed a step and toppled over.

“Smooth, James,” Michael teased him, grinning down at his friend.

“Oh, shut up,” James returned good-humouredly from his position on the floor. “So it’s harder than it looks.”

“Well,” said Cody, whose own feet were clad in fashionable yet practical brown leather boots, “you might have had better luck if those fit.” She studied James critically for a moment, then added, “And were maybe a bit higher.”

“Higher?” squawked James, sitting up and staring at her, his blue eyes wide. “How on earth would that help?”

“Low heels are easy because they’re like boots, and high ones are manageable because it’s like just walking on your toes, but these —” Cody plucked the shoes off James’s feet and held them up, “— are somewhere in the middle, so there’s not really a natural way to balance your weight on them. Or that’s my theory, anyway.”

“Then why am I stuck with these?” Michael wanted to know, assuming that if she knew this then surely most other women did too.

“Because they were cheap and came in your size, I expect,” said Cody dryly. “Don’t complain at me; I’m make-up, not costuming. Now turn towards me so I can get your face.”

“Aww,” said James, getting to his feet at last. “Do you have to? He looks so pretty…”

Cody snorted. Michael looked sharply over at his friend, then relaxed when he saw the comical pout James was wearing.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you?” he teased.

“I told you, darling,” said James lightly, “you’ve never looked more beautiful.”

Michael put a hand to his chest and tried to bat his eyes.

“James! And I thought those were only li— OW!” He stopped short as Cody had grabbed a fingerful of his eyebrow hairs and pulled, forcing his head back around to face her.

“Yes, yes, hilarious,” she said. “Now hold still, would you?”

“Alright, alright,” Michael surrendered. He could hear James sniggering behind him.

“And you can wipe that smirk off your face, Jamie-boy,” Cody added, shooting James a glance. “You’re next.”

As James reined in his mirth, Michael sat back and let Cody begin swabbing the make-up from his face. She was one of the youngest people working on the set and yet neither Michael nor James questioned her calling James ‘Jamie-boy.’ It was an actual nickname of his, but most people either took a while to warm up to using it or else waited for express permission. But Cody had always had a very brisk, ‘your-face-is-my-canvas-now-bloody-hold-still’ kind of straightforwardness to her. She refused to be either impressed or awed by anyone and had always made free with what she called people, but in a friendly sort of way so while people were often surprised by her they usually ended up liking her.

“Y’know,” Michael mumbled as Cody dabbed something cool and wet over his eyes, “this usually goes faster.”

“Yeah, well, usually you don’t have on mass amounts of eye shadow and waterproof mascara,” Cody retorted.

“Waterproof?” said James, echoing Michael’s thought. “Why? We weren’t in the water. We already did that one.”

“Mascara smears easy,” said Cody. “Given the circumstances we decided to err on the side of caution and go with waterproof just incase you two laughed yourselves silly.”

Finished with his eyes she took a damp wipe and handed it to him.

“Here, don’t forget your lips,” she reminded him. “Now move. McAvoy, sit.”

Michael stood and moved to a stool in front of the mirror as James took his place in the chair so Cody could get his face.

“How come he gets to do it himself?” James complained. “You never let me.”

“Because I have absolutely no faith in your make-up putting-on or taking-off skills whatsoever,” said Cody flatly.

In the mirror, Michael saw James make a face at her.

“What are you complaining for?” he asked grinning. “How many men do you think are lucky enough to have such a lovely young lady waiting on them hand and foot?”

“Hand and foot, eh?” James echoed mischievously, waggling his eyebrows.

“In your dreams, McAvoy,” said Cody, dragging her cloth across James’s mouth to shut him up.

“What about me?” asked Michael, making his best charming face at Cody in the mirror.

Cody snorted. “Well, flattery gets you everywhere, but not with that face. You’ve got lipstick everywhere.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “It’s not my fault it won’t come off,” he told her. “And can I take this wig off now? It itches.”

“Go ahead,” said Cody. “But don’t try to undress til all the make-up’s off. Costuming will kill us both if we get lipstick on that dress.”

“I doubt I could unzip it by myself anyway,” Michael muttered, pulling the wig off his head and running his fingers gratefully through his hair to rid himself of the itch. “Ah, that’s better. God, that thing was stifling.”

“I’m sure,” said Cody, finished with James and now moving back towards him. “Here, let me.”

She took the cloth from his fingers and scrubbed the rest of the lipstick and blush from his face with a practiced hand.

“There. Now get that dress back costuming and get out of those tights! You look ridiculous.”

“What are you talking about?” James protested. “Michael has fabulous legs.”

Michael turned to stare at him. Was the man joking again? Cody, however, just laughed.

“Maybe,” she allowed. “But tights weren’t meant to be worn when your legs are covered in a scrub forest. Fishnets especially.”

“Oh, like I was gonna shave for this,” Michael laughed.

“Ha, like you’d even know how,” Cody returned impishly.

Michael rose and James followed suit, grabbing his discarded jacked off the back of the chair.

“Hey, we manage our faces, don’t we?” he quipped.

“Do you?” Cody raised her brows teasingly and waved as they left, heading over to the costume section.

“Love how she plays,” James commented as they walked. “It’s fantastic.”

“Yeah,” Michael agreed. “I worried a bit at first, since she’s so young, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.”

James laughed. “I don’t think she thinks she’s young,” he said. “Have you heard her complain about parliament?”

“No, why?”

“I swear the girl’s as cynical as any old windbag and twice as sharp to boot.”

“Maybe she’s a mutant,” suggested Michael with a grin. “One who never ages or something.”

“And compensates by having the oldest mind ever? Poor girl,” said James. He was watching Michael, frowning a bit. “Are you alright? You’re walking a bit funny.”

“It’s these tights,” said Michael. “I don’t think they were meant for walking anymore than those damned shoes were. Plus, they’re bunching in . . . places things shouldn’t bunch.”

James laughed. “Beauty hurts,” he quipped.

“I’ll hurt you,” Michael muttered, taking a playful swing at his friend. “And what’d you have to go and say that about my legs for? If anyone other than Cody had heard you we’d never hear the end of it. You know the fans are already pairing us off, and the movie’s not even finished yet.” 

“Relax,” said James dismissively. “Cody won’t tell. Besides, you do have good physique. Better than me, anyway.”

They had reached the costume rack now and had stopped in an out-of-the-way corner made by two trailers where the changing screens had been put up. The screens made little boxes and were specifically designed to come just high enough to keep one’s modesty intact while still allowing conversation. This was more so that the costume people could fling various outfits at the actors and give them instructions without having to shout around doors than to facilitate chitchat but that hardly stopped the chitchat from happening.

“Er, thanks,” said Michael, a little uncertainly as he and James each stepped into an open stall. Nathan, Cody’s costuming counterpart, was already rushing over with their spare clothes.

“Thanks, Nate,” said James, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt and shucking his character’s formal vest at once. “Oh, it’s nice to get out of that.”

“Looks good on you,” Michael observed as Nate tossed him his clothes and hurried off again. He felt he was entitled to mention this, since James had already commented on his legs. James merely shrugged.

“Sure is hot, though, these three-pieces. Look good on you too, though. Too bad Erik only ever wears sweats and turtlenecks, though I suppose you do make even the sweats look good.”

Michael focused his attention on removing the ridiculously complicated tights from his legs. He did not know what to make of this man sometimes. James was a shameless flirt and never seemed to worry about what he said; Michael knew that. In fact, it hadn’t actually bothered him until just now, but after that thing with the whipped cream he was having trouble remembering that there was no way James could possibly be interested in him.

Which was good, he told himself firmly. Because that would be awkward, since he, Michael, definitely wasn’t interested. Definitely. Right?

Fishnets removed, he fumbled for the zipper on the dress. It was impossible to reach. No wonder it always took women so long to get ready for things if all their clothing was this complicated. He growled, groping blindly at his back.

“Here, let me help.”

Michael froze as James stepped into his stall and moved to stand behind him. He was acutely aware of James’s hands as James reached up and grasped the back of the dress so he could slide the zipper down Michael’s back. And of James’s breath on his neck and shoulder blades. Surely it wasn’t necessary for James to stand quite that close, even if he was half a head shorter than Michael.

“Dammit,” James muttered as the zipper snagged about halfway down. “Hold on.”

Michael held his breath as James leaned in, working the zipper loose again, his breath now tickling along Michael’s spine. He shivered.

Fuck.

“Ah, got it,” James announced triumphantly, pulling it the rest of the way. “There you go. All set.”

“Thanks,” Michael managed, shoving off the dress and beginning to pull on his day clothes as fast as he could. “Would you mind taking that back to Nate?”

“Sure,” said James cheerfully. As he left with the dress and his own discarded three-piece suit, Michael collapsed on the bench inside the changing stall.

Fuck. And double-fuck. James was his colleague. Worse, his friend. And since when had Michael ever been interested in men, anyway? Damn, damn, damn.

He took a deep breath. Well, whatever this was, he wasn’t going to let it ruin their friendship; he valued that far too much. He would master it. And it would be fine.

Michael glanced at the unmistakable head of floppy hair bobbing away from him and swallowed. Hard.

Maybe he’d get lucky and it’d wear off.

Somehow, he didn’t think so.


	2. In which drunkeness is a trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A random drabble. Basically smut. Warnings for suit porn, very mild bondage, and also some sensation play? Written a while ago and then we forgot about it til now.

When he finally finds James in the crowd, Michael grins so hard his whole face hurts. It’s been way too long. He crouches down and moves quick, trying to avoid getting in the way of the cameras and if he happens to be sneaking up on James a bit, well, added bonus.

James looks delighted to see him, smiling wide and winding an arm around Michael’s waist without hesitation. Returning the gesture, Michael sends thanks to any deities that might be listening that, between the times and the openly flirtatious play he and James set up between their characters and therefore themselves, they are quite capable of getting away with these public displays.

"Missed you," says James quietly under the multitude of chatter and camera flashes and a few cars still rolling up. Then he turns his head to get a good look at Michael. "Mm, always said you clean up nice."

Michael grins. “If they’d told me I was allowed to wear jeans I’d’ve ditched the suit,” he says. “Damn things are fucking hot.”

James just grins and turns to smile for the cameras again. “Got that last bit right, at least,” he says. “Now shut up and look pretty for the nice photographers.”

Michael laughs and does as he’s told; he’s glad he wore the suit.

  


It takes forever, but there again, these events always do. Photos are taken, speeches given, mercifully brief interviews are recorded…everyone mixes and mingles and if Michael weren’t so tired he’d probably hate it a little less but he is and all the noise is beginning to make his head hurt, so when James finds him again, flushed and stumbling and slurring nonsense, he jumps at the excuse to leave, seeing his drunken colleague and costar back to his hotel.

He pushes James into the back of a taxi then climbs in himself, giving the driver the address and grateful James had texted it to him earlier. The ride is short, which is a bit unfortunate; James is a cuddly drunk and Michael loves it. The taxi pulls up outside the entrance and Michael pays the cabby then helps James out.

"Come on," he says, when James weaves a little. "I’ll see you up."

"Goo’ plan," James nods, wrapping his arm back around Michael’s waist and leaning into him. "Yeah, I quite li’ this plan. ‘S a goo’ plan."

Michael just shakes his head and takes him inside. James babbles on and off all the way through the lobby and up the lift.

"What’s your room again?" Michael asks as the doors open.

"Four….somethin’…. four….four sixteen," James slurs, pointing. “‘S a goo’ number, see? ‘Cause, ‘cause, ‘cause four is….four is a thing of sixteen, yeah?"

Michael laughs and takes James’s key from him. “God, you’re drunk,” he says, sliding the key in and opening the door.

"Not as drunk as you think I am," says James, suddenly grinning, all signs of woozy limpness gone. Quick as anything, he shoves Michael inside and shuts the door, locking it gleefully.

"James, what—" Michael starts.

"Had to get you away from the crowd somehow, didn’t I?" says James, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Michael realizes he should have been suspicious of how easy it was to get James to leave the event;  _he_  actually tends to enjoy those things. Not that he’s complaining or anything, not if James is planning what Michael thinks he is.

It would certainly seem that he is, because James is on him in a second, stretching up to kiss him hard, his hands sliding around to Michael’s back, stroking down his spine, pulling his hips close. Michael hums happily and pulls James closer, all his previous tiredness mysteriously gone.

"Miss me?" he asks, pulling back slightly to smirk at James.

"You’ve been driving me crazy all night," James says, repeating the stroke down Michael’s back. "You and this ridiculously sexy suit."

Michael groans slightly as James gropes his ass hard and says, “My apologies. Shall I get out of it then?”

"Definitely not," says James, though he pushes off Michael’s jacket anyway as he slowly walks them backwards towards the bed. "No, I like the suit. The suit can stay." His hands are still stroking Michael’s back and pulling at his hips, as if they can’t get enough of the curve created by his spine. When Michael’s legs hit the foot of the bed, James’s mouth is at his throat and he bends Michael backwards, hands at the small of his back; lips, teeth, and tongue tracing a line down his neck to his collar.

Michael doesn’t understand what James plans to do with him still in the damn suit, but he’s half-hard already and completely willing to follow where James leads so when James pushes him back, he falls willing onto the bed behind him. James follows, running eager hands over his chest, a touch muted but still felt through his waistcoat.

"You’re sure you want the suit to stay on?" he asks, leaning back agains the pillows and reaching up for James, tugging him down for a kiss.

"Positive," says James, "now shut up," and promptly shoves his tongue into Michael’s mouth. Michael  _hmms_  a bit and threads his fingers into James’s hair, trying to get a better angle, but James pulls back. Taking Michael’s wrists in his hands, he pushes them away, stretching Michael’s arms out til his hands find the bedpost. Switching both wrists to one hand, he grins cheekily and uses the other to undo Michael’s tie.

"Oh," says Michael. And that’s new and different and so much more appealing that it has any right to be.

"Alright?" James asks and Michael nods because, oh yes, it is so very alright and, gods, why is James so hot just for knowing exactly what he wants?

James ties him quickly; tight enough to keep his hands in place, but loose enough that if he really wanted to get free he could. It’s a sweet gesture, but Michael’s hardly worried; he’s always trusted James, right from the first. It was part of what drew him to other man.

Above him, James is grinning, a blue eyes hungry as he slowly opens Michael’s waistcoat and then undoes the first few buttons on his dress-shirt, exposing more of his neck. Michael groans when James leans in, licking up one side and then sucking at the soft skin just beneath his jaw, and he shifts restlessly beneath James, toeing off his shoes in hopes of later pantslessness. James nips at his throat, soothes the sting with his tongue, then sits up, straddling Michael’s thighs, and shucks his own shirt, dropping it on the floor beside the bed. Michael half hopes for the opening of his own shirt, but instead James runs his hands up his sides, thumbs stroking up his abs and then lightly over his nipples, the fabric of his shirt scraping lightly against his skin and Michael can feel the tingle all the way down his spine.

He growls, hips jerking and James smiles against his collar bone before biting it lightly and dragging a hand up one of his thighs, then pulls back a bit. A hand reaches for Michael’s shirt and he thinks ‘at last, at last, thank god’ but even here James is teasing him, working the buttons open with one hand, pulling just far enough from Michael’s body so that he’s not touching him but Michael can still feel the heat of his fingers, a long line of wanting trailing all the way down his chest to his belly, and he arches his back, straining to get to James’s fingers as they work his shirt out of his pant, desperate for any real touch.

James smiles, all teeth and a bit predatory, and, god, if Michael wasn’t desperate before he sure as hell is now, but James is still going so  _slow._ He runs one hand lightly — so lightly — up Michael’s chest, while running the other hard down the top of one thigh then turns to drag his nails up the inseam of Michael’s trousers and Michael is sure his wrists are going to be bruised in the morning from all his straining and he does not care one bit because James is running his fingers over his hips, stroking down the insides. Never quite touching, never actually making contact with his crotch, but Michael can feel it, feel it in the fabric like a humming, like vibration.

"James—" he half-growls, half-moans, hips twitching. James grins and nuzzles his inner thigh, then bites down gently before finally,  _finally_ , moving to mouth his erection, running his lips around the outline and then chasing up the shaft with his teeth; the thick fabric and silky lining of his trousers turning what would otherwise have been pain into terrible, wonderfully tantalizing friction, making Michael gasp and squirm.

James takes pity on him and undoes his belt and fly, pulling his trousers down and off then clambering back up to crouch between his legs. He pulls Michael’s boxers down just far enough to free his cock and balls then goes to town, sucking Michael up as far as he can and Michael nearly sobs with relief at the feel of that perfect mouth, hot and wet, around him.

James groans around him, beautiful vibrations, and then pulls up again, sucking as he does, tongues Michael’s slit then circles the head before sliding right back down again. He slips on hand between Michael’s legs to fondle his sac; the other goes behind his own ass and when, exactly, James shed his own pants Michael will never know, nor does he care because he knows where this is going now.

It seems to take forever, or maybe it’s only a few seconds before James is moving, climbing on top of him and lining himself up over Michael’s cock and Michael really hopes that James also managed to lube himself while Michael wasn’t looking because slow and easy is not going to be an option just now.

Holding still while James slides onto him feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done. With every movement, each press and pull of muscle, he has to fight not to move, not to thrust up into his lover, but he manages it. Slow might not be an option, but neither is hurting James. Not ever.

James shifts, gives a low grunt, then settles himself, fully seated. Michael groans as they both adjust, James’s walls fluttering around him and then James leans down to kiss him.

"Love you," he says. Michael smiles and kisses him back. Before he can say it back, James is moving, rising up then coming back down, probably a bit too hard this soon, but he barely flinches and, god, it feels good. Michael groans again and gives in to the want, the  _need_ , to move, to push up into that tight heat. Above him, James moans and runs his hands up his own body as they settle into a rhythm, Michael pounding up into James, James’s cock, stiff and leaking a bit, bouncing, leaving wet spots on James’s abdomen and then James shifts, changing the angle, and it must have been a good idea because his eyes roll back and he cries out, high and breathy and Michael pushes back into him just to hear it again.

His reward is James’s hand dropping back down to touch Michael through his boxers, one finger tracing a tingling line of sensation between his cheeks, almost but not quite touching. It’s not fair, and Michael whines and now he is being pulled in two directions at once; forward into James, and then backward to that wiggling, teasing finger. James grins, a ridiculous look through the pleasure, and uses his free hand to palm his own cock, stroking in time with their movements.

Michael gasps, so close, and manages to get James’s name out somehow. The finger presses down, running a sudden, hard line from just behind his balls down to his anus. Heat pools in his belly and he screams, coming hard and James follows him, Michael’s name getting lost half-way through his lips as semen spatters onto Michael’s chest and James’s belly as James strokes himself and clenches around Michael, wringing every last drop from them both.

"Wow," Michael pants as James collapses limp beside him. "That was — wow."

"Yeah…" says James, sounding drunk and happy. Michael laughs roughly, breath still coming hard in his chest.

"You gonna untie me or leave me here all night?" he asks. "Not sure I actually care, really, just curious." And he really does think that James could leave him tied here all night and still sleep like a log, that’s how spent he is. His bones feel like water. Floaty water, which is ridiculous, and clearly proof that he needs to sleep.

"Oh, righ’ " says James, blinking hazily at him, as if the words are coming to him from a distance. Michael understands the feeling.

"Here," James says, reaching up and fumbling with the knot for a minute. When Michael’s hands are free, he collapses again, this time against Michael’s chest. Michael can’t be bothered to move him; he’s way too tired. Besides, it’s not like he minds. Wrapping his arms around James - who hums contentedly - he smiles.

"I should wear suits more often," he mumbles sleepily.

"Mmph," James agrees, half way to dreamland already.

Michael sighs, smoothes back his hair and drops a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Love you, too."


End file.
